I Could Be There When You Land
by drunkenvicar
Summary: Having decided to believe in the future, Mary most come to terms with the bits of past that start resurfacing. A tale of two honeymoons, subconscious musings, and moving on.
1. Prologue

_Paris, May 1925_

It is the third morning of their honeymoon, and as she slowly wakes in the pre-dawn stillness, the first thing Mary registers is the masculine hand sliding over her stomach, brushing silky fabric against her skin, as Charles burrows nearer to her in his sleep.

And then, in her half-awake state, she remembers waking up just as early one morning, it must be over two years ago now – it was during the period in which she had started to drift, naturally, in her sleep, toward the very middle of the bed, again, which – for some reason she always thought of these two phenomena as connected – was around the time George started speaking in a manner nearly resembling sentences.

As she drifted awake on that spring morning in 1923, her own hand was resting on her lower stomach, not unlike how she had rested it while pregnant. But the fragment of dream that came to her barely conscious mind did not involve George, or the idea of other, hypothetical, future children.

There had been adoration murmured against her skin– surely it was bare in her dream, but she couldn't be sure, as she tried to piece it together again, plucking at her nightdress and the flesh underneath, wrinkling her forehead, eyes absently scanning the familiar wallpaper – and lips had pressed softly, unhurriedly to her stomach. She closed her eyes, sighing peacefully, and soon fell asleep once more.

It is not until this morning, on her second honeymoon – Paris, and then Switzerland, this time – that she thinks about that seemingly insignificant, half-awake flight of fancy again.

Is it his hand clutching at her stomach in the same way, sleepy fingers softly making indents in her skin? His lips coming to rest on her neck just as they lingered on her ribs last night, decadently, deliciously, in absolutely no hurry to move on? The very real adoration whispered against her skin?

But it is as if that long-ago morning was yesterday, and it makes her wonder whether it actually happened at all, or if the memory itself is merely a dream, one that she in fact just had, in this sumptuous hotel bed. She will never know, she muses, but it is in that moment that the memory of the dream – the dream of the dream? – seems significant.

Because the vague male presence in that dream, she realizes now with a curious certainty, was, in all his anonymity, decidedly not Matthew.

She wonders now, as Charles starts to stir, clearly indulging in the still-novel pleasure of waking up together, as he drowsily stretches his leg over her thigh, pulling their bodies against each other, making her shiver and squirm, she wonders.

Could such a fleeting subconscious experience have helped her see that there _was_ a way out of the fog of grief? Because she remembers the distinct feeling that she was _changing_ that spring, suddenly bounding several steps ahead from the year before, when, as the weather had slowly warmed and her grandmother's garden had flourished, she had buried herself in her new purpose, her new duty, running Downton in Matthew's stead.

And she had enjoyed herself, even, on occasion, as spring turned to summer, as she recognized her strengths – and her strength – but she had not let him go, not as she teetered at the edge of blatantly flirting with various interested parties – her new husband included – nor when she dithered about where to sleep in the bed that had not seemed nearly so gargantuan before she had ever shared it.

Nonetheless, she is here now, a fact for which she cannot account, not completely.

And Charles is kissing her jaw just under her ear, revealing that he is properly awake now, and so she turns her head toward him, and, in that cheeky manner of new lovers, she says, "Good morning, darling."


	2. Chapter I

_Thanks to everyone who read, liked, and commented on the first bit, on tumblr or here. I wrote the beginning without imagining anything else, but lala-kate said the more "more," which prompted me to give it some thought. After this chapter, there will be additional "more," eventually.  
_

* * *

_Chapter I  
_

An hour later – or more? Or less? – there is light seeping in around the edges of the thick curtains, and a faint din from the street below indicates that the city is starting to wake up, but Mary is loathe to move. Her lips are resting so close to Charles' neck that she's practically kissing him, but neither of them is moving, anymore, his arms relaxed around her, skin pressed against skin. Eyes closed, she is floating in a sea of sensory pleasures and half-conscious thoughts.

But then one thought, one awkward memory from long ago, becomes decidedly conscious, and all of a sudden she is laughing, rolling more fully on top of her husband so she can bury her face in the pillow.

The laughter has pulled him out of his own reverie, and he tightens his arms around her, caressing her shaking body, as he wonders, befuddled and amused, "What has gotten into _you?_"

Mary props herself up to look at him, though she is still laughing.

"Do you know," she pushes out between laughs, "what I just remembered?"

"Something delightful, it seems."

She nods, grimacing now through her amusement; the hope in Matthew's face after they kissed that night, the first time, flashes in front of her eyes. It is not _all_ delightful.

Though, for now, she continues laughing.

His hands pass over her back as he smirks. "I do hope you'll tell me." Mary nods again, eyes pressed closed, unsure why she finds it quite this funny. Except that she is with Charles, who seems to have the uncanny ability to bring out an uninhibited amusement of which she didn't even know she was capable.

"Once upon a time," she begins, and then they both are laughing.

She tries again.

"Years and years ago, I was talking to my mother late one night in her room, when my father sauntered in from his dressing room." Now she pauses, as she has only just remembered what they had been discussing, and why she was particularly frustrated that her father had interrupted.

"And?"

"Well, he had interrupted our conversation, and I guess I was rather annoyed, and thought the whole situation awkward. So I said something – I'm sure I wanted it to sound terribly condescending – about 'really smart people sleeping in separate rooms.'"

When she quotes herself, it is in the voice she used in those days, when she needed to play the cold, heartless, all-knowing Lady Mary in order bolster herself, to overcome her insecurities. The voice she tried to use with Charles at the beginning, when he thought her aloof.

"It just came to my mind, I could hear my voice saying it, and all of sudden it was the most ridiculous thing in the world."

He merely returns her smile, and she kisses him deeply before resting against him again, and whispering, though it hardly needs to be said, "Let's never sleep in separate rooms."

Now it's his turn to chuckle. "You don't need to convince _me_."

She presses her lips to his collar bone, and realizes that she _wants_ to tell him everything. It is a marvelous feeling of freedom, that she can choose to tell him now, in the comfort and intimacy of his embrace, that she didn't _have_ to tell him as an uncomfortable confession before.

Did she even think about it before?

They became acquainted first over business, discussing - debating - philosophies, politics, taxes. Even the personal elements – the things that brought them together as individuals – rarely delved into the past. He wanted her to believe in the future, and eventually, she did.

She told him about Matthew, of course – in detail, even – but about the later years of the war and their marriage more than about the early days. It was important he understand the extent to which she would always love Matthew, however much they both moved into the future, and it was crucial they be able to talk – openly and comfortably – about him.

But Matthew had been present from the beginning; Mary never had to reveal him, she merely had to elucidate her feelings.

"It was the night that Matthew proposed for the first time, that's what I was telling Mama." Her voice is more than a whisper, but only just.

"In 1914?" That he knows.

"Yes."

His hands stroke her back, and he kisses the top of her head, but doesn't say anything more.

"I want to tell you something."

If he finds the sudden gravity in her voice strange, he doesn't let on. "Of course."

"There was a reason I didn't accept him then," Mary continues, her voice tentative, though her resolve is unwavering.

"Besides your youthful pride?" He is teasing her, but it is truly a question.

"Yes." She can't help but smile, but then pauses to collect her thoughts.

"You see, the year before, Evelyn visited –" then she pauses, and looks Charles in the face again, her hand landing unintentionally forcefully on his chest, "You probably _do_ know!"

"Know what?"

"Or at least the rumors!"

"Rumors about Evelyn?"

"No, about me," she bites her lip. She knows Evelyn would never have said anything, but she also knows now that Charles is better connected than he lets on. "You never heard rumors in London about me? Before the war?"

He looks genuinely bewildered. "If I did, it was so long before we actually met that I never connected the two."

"Of course."

"I was never very good at knowing gossip, anyway." She knows that is not entirely true; he may not be one to _share_ gossip, but he can be insufferably observant.

"Well," she keeps her eyes on him as she continues her tale. "Evelyn visited with a certain Turkish diplomat. There was a hunt, and a dinner. And a great deal of romantic intrigue."

"Lady Mary, being caught up romantic intrigue? I can't imagine."

How wonderful it is that, even now, she can appreciate his jokes! But she can't keep looking at his smirking face while she tells the next part, so she rolls off him, onto her back, though he follows her, resting next to her still, his stomach against her side, his leg over hers.

She speaks more slowly now. "He came to my room – the Turk, that is – he'd asked me if he could, before, and I'd refused him, but somehow, he found my room."

"Oh," Charles whispers in comprehension, and she ventures a look at his tempered face.

"You're going to ask if he forced himself on me."

"I won't ask anything, if you don't want me to."

Mary smiles sadly, gratefully, but looks away again.

"He expertly convinced me I didn't have any choice," she admits, "but my mother asked afterwards if he had forced himself, and I shook my head then, and I suppose I've chosen to stand by that story."

She can see Charles nodding slightly in her peripheral vision. She appreciates his attempt to understand the mysterious workings of her mind on this issue, which she herself doesn't entirely comprehend – and which she stopped trying to disentangle at some point. Some point after Matthew knew, after they were married, after she recognized just how ambiguous and complicated her thoughts were.

"But that's why I couldn't accept Matthew, at first, because I was afraid of telling him."

"But your mother knew? Did your father know?"

And once again she realizes how much more there is to her story.

"God, this must sound ridiculous."

"What do you mean?"

"He – he _died._ In my bed."

"_Oh._" It is one short word, but it contains volumes of surprise and realization.

"I had to wake up Anna, and then Mama, to help me move him back to his room, and eventually it...the story got out."

"Oh, Mary." She can't interpret his tone. It is not pity, thank goodness, and not quite shock.

"I should have told you, I suppose," she sighs, calmly, but with the underlying exasperation undeniable.

"You needn't have," he whispers.

And with his words, she can feel the wound buried deep within her healing further.

"It honestly never occurred to me that I _should _tell you," Mary explains, and realizes this is true. "And it never came up..."

"No, I never inquired after youthful boudoir fatalities," he quips, but it is quieter, less playful than the teasing earlier.

Mary looks at him then, sternly. "That will _not_ become your favorite joke."

Charles shakes his head. "No, sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

She smiles. "I'm glad you did."

"I won't again, though."

She lays her hand atop his, where it rests upon her stomach. Suddenly, in the face of the trust, the intimacy, the love she has known – that she knows now – it seems almost absurd, how she had called Kemal Pamuk her lover.

"Matthew _was_ my first in so many ways, in the important ways," Mary explains, full comprehension of this fact coming to her only as she says it. She looks away, again, peering off into the dimly lit room, but can see him subtly nod in comprehension out of the corner of her eyes.

"Of course, I can only see that looking back," she continues, the previously confused thoughts that she has avoided having – because there was no point, and because she preferred to bury them – coming together and taking surprisingly logical shape in her mind as she speaks. "Maybe it can only _be_ true, now, since before Matthew, the fact that I had had any – any _semblance_ – of a lover was ruinous."

"And now it doesn't matter," he muses, and she lets her head loll to the side, giving him half a smile.

"Now it doesn't matter," she agrees. "It astounds me, now that I think about it, how much that one event subsumed my life, how it affected how I thought about my life, for so long."

"I'm sorry." The genuine concern in his voice comforts her, but at the same time she realizes she needs the comfort so much less than she once did.

"Don't be. It's in the past, and you just said it doesn't matter. The fact that I'm just now telling you attests to that." Her smile widens, and a playful look appears in her eyes. "Then I was married, and then I had _been_ married, and no one cared. A magical balm, marriage."

There is a sweet sarcasm to her comments. She is no longer bitter, as she might have been if she had married Carlisle, and they are on their honeymoon, after all: it is neither the time nor the place to imply she lacks appreciation for the institution of marriage.

But when she thinks about the young woman she was, the tense conversations with her mother, the way an efficient and advantageous marriage seemed so urgent, she cannot say that it is a fair world.

Yet, here she lies, smiling at her husband, running her fingers through his floppy curls, and rather than being shocked, or even judgmental, he is full of jokes about her youthful indiscretion. As her fingers graze his neck, and his eyes flutter shut, she can think of nothing but being content, and it seems that his amused take on events is contagious.

"As a widow, I could have taken a lover, discretely, carefully."

Charles opens his eyes, and Mary delights in seeing her own playful expression reflected in his face.

"I could have taken _you_ as a lover."

"And not married me?"

"Who knows?"

They both know.

His hand that has been still the whole time begins to traverse the skin of her stomach, and he leans closer.

"I'm ever so glad you deigned to marry me."

His wife's smile widens.

"I am, too."

The lips that have been hovering ever nearer reach her jaw first, but she shifts her head and resolutely kisses him back, threading her fingers back into his hair as her leg hooks onto one of his, keeping him there, leaving no doubt about her interest in being his lover.

* * *

_AN: I do want to let this speak for itself, but I have A Lot Of Thoughts about Pamuk, etc., and wanted to say two things. 1) I'm sort of testing the premise that JF/the show seems to be operating upon, that marrying Matthew basically made the whole thing a moot point, even for Mary personally. So I'm trying to dig into to what extent the whole thing would stop being important to her self-worth but at the same time still be an important and - to some unknown degree - traumatic thing that happened to her, which also probably became less traumatic by, you know, actually having a functional, happy, and unambiguously consensual sexual relationship. I wrote a draft of this, and then spent two days not really thinking I bought it myself - that she wouldn't have told him before - and then I looked at it again and thought, "What the hell, let's make it work." 2) On that note, I think the whole Pamuk deal is zero funny, on one hand, but if you think about it, it does have certain farcical qualities, which became particularly clear to me when I thought about Mary setting out to tell it (again.)_


	3. Chapter II

_I'm terribly delinquent about responding to comments, but THANK YOU to everyone who has read this, commented, etc. I do appreciate it very much! Now, get ready for a continuation of this slow, windy, introspective ride._

* * *

_Chapter II_

Mary feels herself slipping.

Slipping away, into a fuzzy world of memory, of ambiguity.

Anna has left and Charles is in the next room, and she realizes she is staring blankly at her reflection as she sits at the vanity, her mind has momentarily slipped away, somehow.

She has been staring at her collar bone in the mirror for too long, so long that her own body looks absurd, unreal, surely distorted. Her eyes dart around, land on the earring in her hand – she remembers what she had meant to do, is back to her task.

She slips it into her ear. She is slipping.

There is an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach, of doubt, of awkwardness. Surely she should not regret telling Charles what she told him this morning. If anything, she felt relieved immediately afterwards, she felt free, honest, complete, as she pulled his body taut against hers, wanted to never let him go.

But it is not that simple, and she is slipping now, finds herself feeling somehow stunted, uncertain, no longer the happy newlywed she was yesterday, or even earlier this morning.

Matthew's hopeful face, his naïve joy, that night over sandwiches eleven years ago, comes back to her again, and she fades out, away from her corporeal self, all the time absently toying with her earring, her mouth just open, head tilted peculiarly. And all of the little things that have reminded her of him in the last day and a half, since they arrived in Paris, converge.

Inextricably mixed up in those memories is the much-suppressed sense of twisted guilt, of regret, about the many years they could have had, had it not been for one fateful night, and for her fear, her insecurity, her deeply internalized sense of inferiority.

And her hand slips, tugging on the earring, and she shakes herself, comes to the surface of the present again, contemplates her reflection intentionally, straightens her spine, attempts to focus.

They are such different men – though they have their similarities – and such different relationships, different marriages. There would be no purpose in comparing them, and Mary does not.

But now, she is on honeymoon in France for a second time, and seemingly mundane activities – speaking French, gracefully deferring to her husband to handle tickets and reservations, being served coffee with breakfast – bring back long-buried memories of those halcyon first weeks of her marriage to Matthew, moments that for so long were too painful to dwell on, and moments that were inconsequential at the time.

Yesterday, they were occasional sprinkles, she sidestepped them, returned to her conversation with Charles, to her dinner, to the present, but this morning they have caught up with her, soaking her as she sits in front of the mirror.

Could it be that she has beckoned these memories by speaking of the past this morning, by letting herself relive the wonderment, the love, the care, the firsts, the sublime peace she found in those first few days alone with Matthew?

Can it really all be coming back to her, pulling at her, just as she was contemplating the small wonder of having moved on?

Is she slipping back, can she continue to move forward?

To be honest, she feels much changed from the bride who guilelessly joked about her going away suit costing more than the national debt, and in fact she considered staying for a few days after the wedding, not rushing off, not making such an event of the honeymoon, not being away for so long, but her mother convinced her otherwise, told her to go, to enjoy herself, that she needn't worry about the estate, or about George, or anything else she might have been able to offer as an excuse.

"Leave the day of the wedding. That way you won't put Charles in the position of feeling obligated to show up to breakfast with your father," her mother said with smirk.

Mary rolled her eyes. "To be honest, I doubt he would feel obligated."

"Nonetheless."

So it was a wedding night spent in a bedroom that is to be their own, in the townhouse in London, a recent joint purchase, so that they can split their time, for now, between London and Downton.

She gave Anna the night off, made no ceremony of going up before him, of presenting herself. Her blouse was askew by the time they reached the bedroom, and she first donned the nightdress bought for the occasion early the next morning.

"What do you think?" she asked, climbing back into bed.

Charles gazed at her sleepily, reaching out to touch the fabric on her hip.

Mary watched him closely as his hand slid over the smooth, delicate material, as his eyes fluttered shut, as he grasped her leg and his lips turned up into a bemused smile.

"We could stay here," he suggested then, leaning toward her, and when his eyes opened, mere inches from hers, she could detect a mischievous glow.

"What do you mean?"

"We could stay here," he repeated. "Tell everyone we went away, and not get out of bed for three weeks."

Mary smiled as his lips met hers, her fingers traversing his bare skin, his grip tightening on her silk-clad waist.

"And miss seeing the International Exposition?" she countered playfully, drawing back only enough to speak. "And the Swiss Alps?"

Charles grunted, pulling her hips to his, pressing kisses to her cheek, her jaw, her neck. "I think I would rather just see you."

"And what of the French pastries you'd forego?" She played her trump card, but his lips continued their path to her shoulder, his tongue dipped into her clavicle, and she was rendered momentarily distracted, scarcely expecting him to answer.

"But I shall devour you." His voice was muffled against her skin,and it took her an extra second to register what he had said, that he had in fact said something.

"You shall?"

"Mhmm."

"I'm distinctly less sweet than pastry."

His lips closed around her earlobe, her fingertips threatened to roam down his thigh.

"I prefer you that way," he whispered against her cheek.

It is not Charles that makes her think of Matthew, and making love to Charles certainly does not make her think of Matthew – it hardly makes her think of anything else but him, of them, of that spark she first began to consider when their eyes met over a suggestive comment about wrestling in mud – though she has caught herself marveling over unexpected differences, that some things seem strangely new, that some things are strangely new.

They are each new to each other, and she is new to herself, with him.

But she does not compare them, as lovers or otherwise.

She does not consider Matthew's likely response, if it had been him to whom she said "I'm distinctly less sweet than pastry."

She does not consider that Matthew's Mary Crawley was rather sweet, to the certain befuddlement of anyone else who might have known.

She has changed her name, after all, married again, and she is acutely cognizant that these events are only possible after having made peace with the person she has become, with her own conception of who she is after Matthew. With who she became both because of Matthew, and because of his untimely death.

It was necessary to let him go, in part, to be free of him in a way she was not in the spring of 1922, to be here today.

And it is not as if she wants to forget him, far from it, but must he be so present, so overwhelming, as he is this morning?

As Mary contemplates her reflection, wonders how much time has passed since Anna left her, if Charles is wondering what might be keeping her, it occurs to her that she and Matthew must have gone back to Downton with a veritable trove, not only of private experiences, but of private jokes, of words, objects, that meant something new to only the two of them.

They would make jokes out of French words, repeating the currently chosen word as often as possible, until they tired of it, frequently with little care for accuracy, and usually with mock formality.

_Collier. Partout. Oreiller. Bonheur. Mer._

The words come to her amid flashes of memory, of his lips on her necklace clasp, on her neck, nudging her dangling earring, of the afternoon sun coming in the window as she lay on the bed in Nice, naked save for her thoroughly-kissed jewelry, comfortably uncovered in the heat, watching Matthew doze and knowing that – no matter the potential dispute facing them when they returned to Downton – she could never have imagined being happier than she was then.

It is a happy memory, but even now, she does not wish to dwell on the memory of that feeling, in that moment, of unimaginable, insurmountable contentment.

Is it guilt? Regret? Discomfort? Sorrow?

"Tell me, Lady Mary," Matthew whispered one morning, coming up behind her as she stood on the balcony, idly looking out to the beach, the water. "What do you think of _la mer_?"

His hands gliding over her ribs and his lips on her shoulder conspired to make her answer a mere sigh.

"Tell me," he prodded, trailing kisses up her neck. "_La mer_."

"What would you like to know?"

"Does my Lady approve of the view?" His right hand started to feather over the curve of her breast, through her dressing gown. She closed her eyes.

"Yes."

"And how does she find Perseus?"

Mary chuckled, then sucked in her breath as Matthew cupped her breast.

"Most satisfactory." She laid her head back to his shoulder. "Thus far."

"Mary, are you ready?"

It is Charles asking for her.

It is 1925.

She slipped, but she is being pulled back.

"Mary?" He wanders into the bedroom, Mary meets his eyes in the mirror.

"Yes," she responds, gathering herself, smiling. "Yes, of course."

* * *

_Head canon: Mary is actually excellent at French. I, however, am less excellent at it, apologies. _


End file.
